Within
by valkyriegirl
Summary: She'd lost Peter once. She wasn't going to lose him again. Companion piece to "The Waiting Room". Picks up 72 hours after the end of "Over There, Part 2". AU. P/O.
1. Chapter 1

**Rated: T  
**

**Spoilers:** "Over There" Part 2.

**Disclaimer:** This is not my show. No inFRINGEment intended.

**A/N:** This is a companion piece to "The Waiting Room". It takes place 72 hours after the end of "Over There, Part 2". Olivia's POV. Thanks again to piratesmiley for being my beta reader.

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Every time, after they had finished with her, or when she finally fell unconscious, she would wake, disoriented, hurting, with no recollection of what had occurred except for vague, fleeting memories of pain and a familiar, detached voice, asking questions. She had no idea what they wanted. In the dark, swallowing silence, she would lie, cheek pressed to the cool linoleum, the iron tang of blood in her mouth as she tallied her injuries. She liked to think that in her drugged stupor she fought back. She liked to think that she had left her mark on them, as they had left their mark on her. She had never even seen their faces.

This time, when she woke, she discovered two things.

First, she found that the right side of her face was so swollen and sticky with blood that her right eye wouldn't open at all (not that she could have seen anything in the dark). With unsteady fingers, she very gently felt her face, wincing at her own touch and as the cuff of her sleeve brushed her wrists, which were rubbed raw from being tied down. She discovered an inch-long gash on her forehead, and a puffy, split lip. _Well, that's new._ She ran her tongue along her teeth to make sure they were all still there. When she took a breath and the smell of blood filled her nose, suddenly she was nine again, standing in a corner, watching her step-father batter her mother. She'd scream at him to stop and he'd turn, jeer, spit ugly words. _What are you gonna do about it? You want it too, you little bitch? _She gritted her teeth. Unwilling to let them—or herself—think they'd broken her down, she dragged herself upright, leaning on the wall.

That was when she discovered the second new thing: there was a candy bar on the floor. The rattle and crack of the wrapper under her foot, overloud in the perpetual black silence, made her jump. She reached down slowly and gingerly picked it up, utterly perplexed. For days there had been no food, only tepid, mossy water. They wanted her weak, she'd decided. They wanted her malleable. They didn't know her at all. Admittedly, the first day in the cell she had panicked. She'd begged to be released, believing that since their Walter had a good heart, Walternate must have some good in him, too. She had learned her lesson—it wouldn't happen again. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction (though sometimes it took all of her strength to keep from howling endlessly in rage and misery).

But she was hungry, god, yes, she was hungry. She squeezed the wrapper in her fist to make it crackle, relishing in the foreign sound as it filled the noiseless cell, and leaned back to consider her options. _I could eat it, obviously,_ she thought, _But that—also obviously—is exactly what they want me to do._ She didn't want to play into their hands, and she figured the chances that it was just a candy bar and not drugged with something were next to nothing. But it was so terribly difficult to think rationally when she hadn't eaten in so long. It was a constant battle just to stay lucid, and she feared she was beginning to hallucinate. Every once in a while she would see faces flicker in the periphery of her vision: Peter, Walter, Astrid. Sometimes she saw Ella, or Rachael, or even John. Once she saw Broyles. When she was actually able to fall asleep she dreamed so vividly of home that upon waking it was a struggle to tell the difference between what was real and what was not. She squeezed her eye shut, focusing, refusing to relinquish her grip on reality just yet (she'd seen what it was like at St. Claire's). She ran her finger along the serrated edge of the candy wrapper. _If they're trying to kill me, there are a lot more efficient ways of doing it. If they're trying to drug me—well, they already have done, several times._ She couldn't tell how many times. _What are they playing at?_ Of course there was also the possibility that it was simply another part of their twisted game. She couldn't parse it out.

_I'm tired of playing the fucking mouse, _she thought, with venom. Her head spun as she fought a swell of nausea. She clutched the candy bar in her fist and allowed herself to slump into the corner. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was rationally analyzing all of this. _Right eye swollen shut—temporary loss of depth perception. Dizzyness, nausea—a concussion. Hallucinations—starvation? Or after-effects from the drugs? _For some reason it made her think of Walter. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the candy bar. _Their Walter, her Walter. Was he the Other Walter now? Did that make her the Other Olivia? Was she Olivia at all anymore?_ She didn't feel like she was herself, in here, but she didn't want to admit they'd stolen that, too. Her head ached. She stretched her legs out in front of her, leaning heavily against the wall.

_Walter… Peter._ She still had no idea what had happened to them. Paralyzing fear and mind-numbing panic curled in the pit of her stomach, ever-present. Had they been captured? Had they gotten away? What if they had been hurt? What if…? She couldn't bear to think it. _They're alive, they have to be—Walternate wants Peter alive._ She didn't know where that left Walter. She took a shallow breath through her mouth, wincing as her bottom lip stuck to the top, pulling at the split. _I have got to get out,_ she thought fiercely. _What if they already have Walter and Peter, too? I'm the only way to get us home! I have to find out if they're safe, I have to DO SOMETHING—_

She hauled herself into a standing position and stood for a minute, weaving, before she stumbled and sat back down heavily. She'd already spent hours searching the cell for any weak point. She didn't have a plan, and in her condition she didn't think it likely that she'd make it far even if she did manage to get out. Peter's face flashed in her mind and she dropped her head, left hand covering the side of her face that wasn't battered. _Peter_. She'd had a lot of time to think, to imagine, to wonder what had become of him, and Walter. Sometimes she fantasized that they had crossed, somehow, and were safely on the other side. She would lie on the linoleum, half-dreaming, picturing Peter reading a book or buying coffee or putting apples in a bag at the supermarket. He had wanted to come home with her, and even though she hadn't made it, she wanted that for him—she wanted him to be home safe; she wanted him to be happy. She didn't know if it was possible, but it was a desire that ran deep, anchored in an unfamiliar, primal piece of herself, within.

The intensity of her feelings for Peter was a surprise. During the weeks that he'd been gone, faced with the enormity of the void that he'd left, she'd spent a lot of time thinking about him (and a lot of time trying not to think about him). She had accepted that she was infatuated. Peter was charming and Peter was handsome and it was easy, so easy, to spend time with him—to slip into some frame of mind where she might even anticipate spending time with him. She had thought that she was lonely, after losing John, and then Charlie. On some level, she admitted that they had become friends. Good friends. She justified her search for Peter because it was the best thing for the team (she told herself these things as she was up working on the search for him, tracing leads at 3am).

But by the time they'd learned that he'd crossed over into this Universe, she'd had to acknowledge that she did have feelings for him. Real feelings. Feelings with a capital F. Which was, apparently, obvious to everyone but her. Even Nina Sharp had known it before she did. _Why am I always the last one to know these things? _Vaguely irritated, she felt both dominated by and completely disjointed from her own emotions. It was a character flaw (with a pang she thought of Charlie). And so, by the time she had finally recognized the depth of her feelings for Peter, she had already lost him, and she hadn't known if she would ever get him back.

But she had to try.

So she had gone to find Peter, to save him, to save her, to save them all. She hadn't planned what to say, and when she did find him, the shattered look in his eyes had taken her aback. She'd felt him slipping away just when she'd realized that she needed him to return, not just to keep him safe, but because if he didn't she wasn't sure she'd ever be whole again. She'd opened her mouth to say something, anything, to pull him back to her, to muffle the agonized howling in her chest. What had come out of her mouth was, "you belong with me". He'd blinked, surprised as she, and it had hung in the air between them like a ghost.

But she'd meant it from the core of her being, within.

She hadn't known how to touch him. He'd been gone so long that she didn't know how to share space with him, anymore—and now she wanted it too much. But she was free-falling, at that point, and there had been nothing to do but bare her brittle heart to the wind. She'd needed to feel that he was real and warm and present. _God, if I had known._ So she had pressed her trembling lips to his. At first all she'd felt, all she'd tasted, was her own bitter desperation. But then he'd returned the kiss, pulling her closer, filling her with relief and a vibrant, blinding joy that was so unaccustomed she could hardly recognize it. Something that had echoed and rattled in her chest for weeks finally settled, whole. _You belong with me. _He'd tasted like home.

In the pitch-dark of the cell, something jagged shifted in the hollow of her chest, piercing her somewhere beneath the breast bone. She covered her heart with her hand, mouth open in a silent cry. For once she didn't need to ask herself what she was feeling—Olivia Dunham was familiar with heartbreak. She slumped slowly to the floor, pressed her wretched face into the wall, and surrendered herself to the miserable abyss of her loss.


	2. Chapter 2

She had no idea how much time had passed when a thought filtered through her reverie, a solitary ray of light on the shadowed forest floor. She'd remembered a car ride home in the dark, when Peter had been trying to explain himself, after the near-kiss incident in Jacksonville (the thought almost made her smile to herself in the darkness). _You called us a family._

And they were, or they had been. Slightly unconventional, sure. But it was the closest thing she had, besides Rachael and Ella. It was a strange thing to think. She'd looked out for herself for so long that it seemed foreign and unexpected (Peter had told her once that she was no good at letting people help her). But it felt good. It felt better than good—it felt _right_. For some reason the thought reminded her of being quarantined at Vetros Petrol. Peter had said, "I thought that was the point of having people you care about in your life—to have someone to talk to when you're scared." And she'd looked at him, slightly surprised, thinking, _but I have you._

Abruptly she was filled with a steadfast, burning conviction. She sat up straight, clutching her candy bar (the wrapper crackled). She knew two things. The first was that although she didn't know exactly what they had planned for her here, she was confident that they weren't going to decide that they had had enough and let her waltz out the door some day. The thought filled her with a raw, stupefying terror, but the rational portion of her mind had accepted it. _There is only one way this captivity can end._

The second thing that she knew was that she wasn't going to down without a fight (if she was honest with herself, she'd known it would come down to a fight since the beginning. Had she really thought they'd just let her go free?). She had a home; she had a family to return to. She knew what it was like to live in solitude, and now that she had people to share her life with, she sure as hell wasn't going to let Walternate steal that away from her. She would fight her way out, or she would die trying. _I will find my way back to you. _

All of a sudden she felt relieved, as though the weight of a heavy decision had finally been lifted from her shoulders. Her only opening would be when they came to take her out of the cell for tomorrow's session. She didn't have a plan—she'd have to hope that something came to her before then. She'd have to be quick, before they managed to dose her with a sedative. For now, she needed sleep. She crawled shakily onto the cot and lay down with the candy bar in her hand, tucking her face into her left arm. When she slept, she dreamt of Peter.

She woke when a shaft of light pierced the darkness as they slid a half-gallon of lukewarm water into her cell through a door in the wall. She tucked the candy bar into her breast pocket and eased herself up into a sitting position on the cot, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. Slowly she made her way over to the wall. She screwed the cap off and drank thirstily, gulping, water dribbling down her chin. Then she very carefully poured a little bit of water onto the cuff of her sleeve and started dabbling delicately at the dried blood on her face. When she was finished she could almost open her eye, but it was still very swollen. She sat against the wall and put the cap back on the jug.

She must have dozed again because the next thing she knew, she was jarred awake by the sudden illumination of her cell. She squinted and blinked in the bright lights as they made her eye water. She stood up quickly (she had one hand on the wall for support) and faced off against the door. This was generally how they took her. She hefted the water jug in her hand, bracing herself. Instead, the shade on the window slid up and Walternate pressed a piece of paper to the glass. She took a step forward, fixed him with her best scowl, and crossed her arms. She wasn't going to rise to his bait, not this time. He waited for a minute or two, then raised his other hand and pushed an unseen button—the intercom.

"I had thought that you'd be interested in what became of my son, Peter. But I see that I was mistaken." He started to drop the paper, and she was at the window before she could think about it, hands against the glass. He raised the paper and held it for her to see. It was a photograph of Peter getting out of a car with a woman. The woman had long, auburn hair. Olivia squinted, having difficulty focusing. It was her! Or rather, it was the Other her. With Peter! Her stomach dropped horribly as a strange rushing sound filled her ears. _They have no idea that I'm gone. They don't know she's not me—and of course they trust her. She's there with Peter, Walter, Astrid… Rachael and Ella… They are all completely at her mercy._ An awful, agonized wailing filled the room—it sounded primitive, guttural, the kind of sound a wounded animal would make, and it took her a second to realize that the sound was coming from her own chest. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she began pounding her fists on the window, screaming, drowning in a sea of rage and panic. Flecks of blood flew everywhere as the lacerations on her wrists opened up. Walternate smiled, and slowly slid the shade down. The cell went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Just a reminder, this is rated **T** for language and some violence. That being said, yes, perhaps I am indulging my own vindictive fantasy just a bit... In any case, she had it coming!

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She had no idea how long she raged. She screamed until her voice gave out, beating her fists on the window in the dark until her hands and the glass were slick with blood. Eventually she slid down to the floor, clutching her head, breathing quick shallow breaths as she rocked back and forth. Their names made a litany in her mind, looping over and over again in her panic. _Peter Rachael Ella Walter Astrid Peter Ella Walter Rachael Peter Astrid Ella Peter Walter Peter Ella Astrid Rachael Ella Peter— _

Eventually she became aware of another sound in the room. It took her a second to recognize the soft plastic crinkle of the candy bar wrapper in her pocket. She stopped rocking and took out the bar, holding it in both hands. Before she could really think about it she tore open the wrapper, just to be doing something, anything, that would shift her focus from her overwhelming panic for even the briefest of moments. She broke off a huge chunk and gulped it down, blood from her hands mixing with the chocolate in her mouth, the metallic tang underneath the sweet nearly making her gag. There was another taste, too, one that she couldn't identify. She found herself almost hoping that it would be drugged. At this point she thought she'd welcome just about anything that would alter her horrible state of limbo, of not knowing, of being made to sit by while her loved ones were endangered. Warm from her pocket, the chocolate was melted and in her haste to devour the bar she got it all over her hands and mouth. She licked her fingers clean and grimaced fiercely, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Cradling the wrapper in her open palm, she settled back against the wall. _Okay, you son-of-a-bitch, let's see what you've got for me. _

For several minutes nothing happened. Then she teetered, retching as a wave of nausea enveloped her and she began to shake. She hit the ground as her eyes rolled back in her head.

_After a moment she realized she was standing on the edge of a huge, dark precipice. The wind whipped her blonde hair over her shoulder in tendrils, stark against the black chasm below, and tugged at her jacket, pulling her forward toward the edge. She took a step back, watching pebbles slide off into the abyss, echoing on the way down. There didn't seem to be a bottom, and she stood for what seemed like several minutes, mesmerized by the yawning, empty void. Eventually she heard the crunch of gravel behind her and turned, realizing that she wasn't alone. Startled, she recognized herself. Only it wasn't her. It was the _Other_ her, the Alternate, who smiled contemptuously as she approached. _

"_You've lost." She said, sauntering forward, auburn hair bright against the upturned collar of her jacket. "You are not missed. They're mine now. They never loved you, anyway. Did you really think that they did? That _he_ did? Good looks, charm, and an IQ of 190 and you thought he wanted to be with one Olivia Dunham, the broken girl?" She laughed as she stopped, inches from Olivia's face, sneering. Her eyes were dark, black. "Even after all that, after crossing a Universe to get to him, you couldn't ever bring yourself to tell him that you loved him. You couldn't tell _any_ of them that you loved them, because you manage to put up a decent façade, but really, inside, there's nothing left—" Altlivia pressed an index finger to Olivia's chest. "You're not a human being anymore, Olivia, you're just a hollow specter." She pushed, and Olivia stumbled back, weakly. The void yawned behind her darkly, inviting. Altlivia lifted her chin. "They deserve better than that. They deserve someone whole." She tossed her hair and reached up to grab Olivia's lapels, violently dragging her toward the rift. "It's time to stop inflicting yourself upon them, Olivia. It's time to put yourself out of your misery." Olivia reached up and tried to break the grip on her collar, but the Alternate was stronger. They struggled as Altlivia pulled her inexorably toward the cliff-face. Olivia took another look down into the chasm, awash in a flood of fear and sorrow. She didn't want it to end this way; she felt she had hardly begun. She wasn't ready to say goodbye. Panicking, she struggled to breathe as Altlivia gave another heavy pull and Olivia's foot slipped a little, scrabbling on the edge. So close, so soon. Another breath, and it would be over. Olivia looked up into the face of her killer—her own face—and dropped her head as Altlivia smiled. "Are you afraid, now?"_

_Suddenly, over the howling of the wind, Olivia heard Peter's voice. _"I've never met anyone who can do the things that you do."_ She thought of him; of Ella, Rachael, Walter, and Astrid, and knew that she couldn't let it end like this. They were in danger, and she had to protect them. _They need me. _The thought burned like a torch in the darkness, filling her chest with warmth and power. Olivia would not let this woman threaten them. She would do _anything_ to keep them safe._

_Her head came up, and she smiled a feral half-smile. _This isn't over yet, bitch.

_Olivia snapped her head forward, letting loose a guttural snarl as she smashed her forehead forcibly into Altlivia's mouth. Altlivia gave a little gasp and weakened her grip, allowing Olivia to knock them both down into the dust. They scrambled the dirt, each desperately trying to get a firm hold on her doppelganger as they teetered on the edge of the brink. Altlivia kicked her hard in the stomach, but Olivia finally managed to get a grip on Altlivia's jacket, and she grasped tightly, lifting her double a few inches off the ground. She gripped Altlivia's shirt collar and punched her in the mouth several times for good measure before she dragged her upright. Altlivia smiled a little, wryly, as blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth. Olivia shook her, wanting to wipe the smile off of her smug, familiar face. The alternate licked her bloody lip, and spoke. "You don't belong with them." Olivia lifted her up a little higher._

"_That may be so, but neither do you!" She gave a mighty heave and threw Altlivia over the edge, into the precipice. Altlivia's scream echoed off the chasm walls. Olivia's last glimpse of her was the red of her auburn hair against the black, and then she was gone. _

Olivia woke with a start, gasping in the dark of the cell. Her mouth still tasted of blood and chocolate, and she realized she'd bitten her tongue. As she lay on the linoleum, she began to see light in the darkness—just a very soft glow. A glimmer. As she watched she realized the entire cell was illuminated by a faint, dancing light. She looked at her hands, which were black silhouettes against the faint glow of the walls, of the floor, even her awful uniform. It reminded her of something she had seen before. She frowned and sat up, wiping her mouth, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Her starved, abused brain struggled to put the pieces together. _This reminds me of Peter… of the way Peter glimmers… That weird dream… Am I on cortexiphan? Did I just eat a candy bar spiked with _cortexiphan_?_ She looked at her hand, a shadow against the jittering light, and opened her fist. The candy wrapper smoldered, curling, in her palm, and then caught alight. She dropped it quickly, startled, and then slowly began to smile as she watched it burn on the cell floor.

Someone had given her the key to her escape.

She took a breath, dipped deep into the abysmal well of her panic, and fixed her loved ones in her mind. Her fear, borne of her love for them, fostered the strength, within.

The walls of the cell burst into flame.

She emerged from underground facility as though it were a tomb, ascending out of the steel, reinforced doors in a veil of smoke and fire as sirens and shouts pierced the darkness around her. Racing across the courtyard, she was momentarily illuminated in the brilliant ellipse of a spotlight. She turned her head, focusing—the watchtower burst into flame. Bullets bit into the turf around her as she ran, their punctuated chatter accompanied by a helicopter in the distance. She figured they must be trying to hit some non-vital part of her, or she'd be dead already. _So you didn't think you were finished with me, yet. _Olivia came to a sudden stop when she reached the perimeter, rattling the chain-link gate desperately. It was locked, and too high to climb, not to mention the razor wire. If she didn't move, she'd be shot. She was trapped. _They said we'd need a soft spot to cross, but in the beginning there were hardly any soft spots, and humans caused more of them… It looks like I'll just have to make my own. _Refusing to think about the impossibility of that, or of how exhausted she was, she lifted a palm to the air and pressed, focusing on the barrier between Universes rather than the chaos around her. There was shouting and gunfire behind her, and something hit her, hard. Her leg buckled, causing her to stumble. Shaken, she forced herself to refocus, pushing herself though with one last, momentous effort. There was a flash of bright blue, the noise and the acrid smell of smoke faded, and she heard the sound of someone's voice—Peter's voice—in her ear, before she succumbed to the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **Hey all, sorry for the long wait between updates; I got a little carried away with _The Waiting Room_. That being said, I think this is my favorite chapter thus far of _Within_, so I hope it was worth the wait. :) Please let me know what you think!

This chapter coincides with Ch. 5 of _The Waiting Room._

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_Olivia was drowning in her cell, and Walternate was laughing at her. He loomed over the observation window, smiling coldly as she struggled in the dark, cool water. She should know how to swim, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember—they'd done something to her head, and her leg wouldn't work. In fact, her leg was white-hot agony. "Let me out!" She screamed, gasping for air, choking on the brackish water. "Help me, please! Let me out!" Struggling to keep her head above the surface, she kicked hard with both legs. Pain shot through her left leg like a livewire and fireworks exploded across her retinas._ She gasped and opened her eyes.

It was dark, but unlike the darkness that had become Olivia's most intimate companion over the past few days, it was not all-encompassing. She blinked in the unaccustomed light, too uneasy to enjoy it—she didn't recognize the room, and the change made her wary. _What are they going to do this time? More tests? More "questions"?_ Strangely, there was an actual window, with an actual streetlight outside of it. Moreover, there was actual wallpaper on the walls, and even a mediocre watercolor. What were they getting at? Was this the "nice guy" treatment? _I can deal with more carrot, less stick. _She was having trouble remembering anything that would explain the sudden change in room, but gaps in her memory weren't unusual, as they kept her almost constantly drugged. She sat up, and realized she was in luck—they hadn't restrained her. Looking down at the bed, she pulled the comforter off—some sort of carpet-esque print—and realized that her leg was heavily bandaged. She moved it experimentally and sparks flashed in her eyes as she bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a scream. _So I didn't just dream that._ _What in the hell did they do to me? _

In a flash of panic, she suddenly remembered Walternate's photograph of Peter with the Other her. _The Other Olivia_. _Fuck._ She had no idea how long she'd been out—her dreams had been long and confused, filled with Peter and the others—she couldn't tell how much time had passed between seeing the photograph and waking up in this room, and she had no idea what they had done to her in the meantime, but her determination hadn't wavered. _They're still in danger._ She felt her chest constrict, the hair rising on the back of her neck and arms. _I have to get out. I have to make sure Peter and the others are safe._

Her head came up and she pulled the IV out of her arm. Barely managing to suppress another scream of agony, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, wondering how she'd ever make it out of the room, let alone out of the facility—she could hardly walk. She gritted her teeth and pushed the doubt out of her head as she put her good foot on the ground, slowly easing the other foot down beside it. Then she stood, gripping the nightstand. _If I can only get to the door_— She took a step, biting her cheek to keep from screaming. She had to get out. She had to try. _Peter, Walter, Ella, Rachael, and Astrid—their safety depends on my escape._ She took another step and thought she tasted blood. _Nevermind._ She had to get out, she had to—her leg gave way on the third step, and she fell, knocking the IV stand over on her way down. It made an enormous crash. Olivia scrambled, trying to get up, knowing that at any second they would appear, bind her, punish her. Her chance to escape, to help Peter, Walter, Ella, Rachael, and Astrid, was rapidly slipping away from her. She groped in vain for something that could be used as a weapon. Someone burst into the room, pointing a gun.

The furrow of his brow, the scruff and set of his jaw, the angle of his strong, broad shoulders, and most of all, his sharp blue eyes, were instantly, achingly familiar to her, and her first thought was, _Fuck. I've graduated to full-on hallucinations. _Perplexed, she wondered for a second why he was barefoot, dressed only in a t-shirt and boxers. But he was still moving, putting the gun away, and the furrow of his brow deepened further as he looked at her floundering on the floor, tangled in the IV. His foot brushed her leg as he leaned over her to put the gun on the nightstand, and she realized he was really there. Horrified, a chill ran down her spine. _Oh, no, Peter—they've got you too, now. We have to get out of here! _She opened her mouth, panicking, "Peter! Quick, help me, we have to get out of here! They did something to my leg!" Her voice was high with fear, but Peter wasn't listening. He set the gun down on the nightstand—_Peter, pick the gun up, we need that—_and knelt down beside her. "Peter, you're not listening—if we stay they'll catch us, do things—we have to get out—" She was begging him, the words catching in her throat, becoming half-sobs. She tried to stand up again, but she couldn't get her leg to obey her. She scrabbled at his shirt, gripping the cotton tightly, breathing in short little gasps.

"Olivia, you made it home, don't you remember?" He raised a hand and touched her cheek. "You escaped and were shot. Somehow you managed to open a door anyway and come back." She loosened her grip, eyes widening as she realized that what she'd thought were dreams had actually occurred. _I really made it back._ She inclined her head as it all came back to her—the fear, the panic, the cortexiphan high—and sat back against the nightstand, listening as he explained what had happened since they found her in the field outside of New York. All of his movements, his words, were magnified by the adrenaline surging through her blood, which was funny in an ironic way because he was telling her to calm down. She suppressed a giggle, feeling like she was watching him through a screen, but then another wave of panic swept her under as she realized that surely they had been pursued by shape-changers or the alternate Fringe division. She pulled on his shirt, trying to get him to listen to her, but he assured her that everyone—he, Walter, Astrid, Rachael, and Ella—was safe at the moment. She was having difficulty focusing on the individual words, so after a moment she just leaned back again, listening to the tone and rhythm of his voice, watching the concern in his eyes, the way his brows knit together in a deep frown. Suddenly it was all too much. _Peter. _She could feel herself starting to shake, coming apart at the seams.

She muttered something, anything to get her to someplace where she could just process, breathe for a second. He insisted on checking the gunshot wound to make sure she hadn't torn out any stitches or started the bleeding anew. Her stomach dropped when she saw the raw, ragged wound—_I'm not going to be able to walk for weeks—_so instead she focused on his face, breathing slowly as she tried to keep her panic at bay. Peter was not an easy man to read, by any standards, but she was good at these things and she had known him for almost two years now. Emotions flitted across his face like clouds across the sky—tenderness, concern, frustration, anger. It pulled at something deep in her chest, and in the small part of her that wasn't focused on keeping it together she had a sudden, strong impulse to reach out and touch to him, his shoulder or the arch of his brow, but she kept her hands at her sides. As it was, she was fighting as hard as she could not to have a complete, gibbering meltdown at his feet.

When he had finished, he brought her a pair of crutches and she made her way slowly, painfully, across the room to the bathroom. She shut the door on his dear, concerned face and awkwardly set the crutches against the wall. For a minute she stood, leaning heavily on the sink, shaking, at a loss of what to do. Caught by her reflection in the mirror, she stared, shocked by the state of her battered face. There was a large gash above her eyebrow, her cheekbone was bruised a mottled green and blue, and her lip was split and swollen. The worst was her eye, green iris and black pupil staring out of a pinkish, sickly sclera. She'd expected it to be bad, but this—she almost didn't recognize herself. She could hardly bear to look—how could Peter look at her this way?

Eventually, she dropped her eyes, willing herself to let it go. It was just one more thing to process in her already over-burdened brain. _The important thing is that everyone is safe. _She reached over and turned the tap on, carefully splashing water on her face, and gently patted her face dry with a hand towel, wincing. There was a brand new toothbrush on the medicine cabinet shelf so she opened that and brushed her teeth for a good five minutes, reveling in the sensation, the luxury of it. After that she ran out of ideas and sank down to the cool floor, still shaking, feeling strangely ethereal, separate from her body. She drifted.

After a while, something tugged her back to herself, and she looked down, realizing it was the floor. It was linoleum, which bothered her somewhat because it reminded her of the cell. _Calm down, it's just linoleum._ Sitting, she stared at it, slightly shiny in the light from the fixture above. The longer she stared, the more it bothered her. She would never think of linoleum the same way again—in fact, she fucking hated linoleum. A flash of anger focused her for a second, and she pulled the bath mat down and painfully sat on that instead, which made her feel slightly better. Pulling her good knee up to her chest, she examined the bandages on her wrists. _Calm down, it's alright, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free_. Eventually she tucked her arm around her knees and rocked, the litany becoming a sing-song in her mind. _I'm free, I'm free, I'm free… _ Flashes and snippets of memories flooded her mind and she saw a silhouette looming over her, wreathed in a haze of her own pain, flames licking up the sides of her cell walls. She pressed her face into her arm. She had no idea how long she sat there, but she just couldn't quit shaking. There was a strange, low keening sound, and it took her a minute to realize it was coming from her own chest. The tears, when they came, surprised her. She didn't feel… anything. She just felt numb.

After a while, there was a knock at the door, and she jumped, startled. _Peter. _He called her name several times, but she couldn't find the voice to answer. She looked up at him miserably as he came in, an utter wreck, ashamed of herself but too much of a mess to do anything about it. He looked surprised to see her there in the corner, and he slowly reached over and shut the water off, calculating, before he knelt down beside her, cupping her shoulder in his left hand. She opened her mouth, wanting to provide some explanation of her state. "I didn't think I'd ever get out, but I had to keep trying—I was afraid they had you and Walter, Astrid, Ella, and Rachael… They did things, to me, Peter—I don't even know what they did to me… I can't remember." He listened until she was finished, and although he didn't speak, he might as well have—she could read it all in his face. _I am here for you, and you are safe now, 'Livia. _Most of all, and she almost quailed at the thought, feeling infinitely inept and unworthy, his steady, open gaze radiated simple, unfailing affection.

When she had fallen silent again he pulled her toward him, gently, enfolding her into his arms, and she shivered at his touch and pressed her face into the hollow of his neck, her nose filled with his musky scent. He smelled like home. It touched her in a way that nothing else had, anchoring her finally back to the solid earth, breaking down her last reserves. Overcome by agonized, wracking sobs, she pressed her face further into his shoulder, struggling not to cry out. He pulled her closer and rocked her, rubbing her back. _I am here for you, 'Livia. _He told her, patiently, silently, lovingly. He was her lodestone, and in the protective circle of his arms she finally let go, riding out her terror, anger, and violation in a hysterical storm of tears. She didn't know how long she cried. After a while she was able to take a gasping breath, finding her way back to him and herself, shuddering into silence with big, shaky breaths. Her face and his shirt were soaked. Quietly, she leaned into him, indulging, loath for it to end. She knew it would—she knew it would more than likely be her own doing, driven by the self-consciousness, embarrassment, and uncertainty that would inevitably creep back into her conscience. But in the meantime, she let herself be. _I need you, Peter. _His gentle hands, his scent, and the steady beat of his heart underneath her cheekbone were her anchor as she relearned how to breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Hey all! I've been having a lot of fun writing! I've really been enjoying the juxtaposition of _Within_ and _The Waiting Room_ because although they're very closely tied together, I think the stories have a very different feel. I hope you continue to enjoy this as much as I have. Thanks so much for continuing to read and review!

This chapter comes somewhere in between the end of CH 5 and CH 6 of _The Waiting Room_.

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Olivia lay awake in the darkness and stared at the ceiling, illuminated by a solitary spray of light that had leaked through a chink in the blinds and splashed across the bed. The last cold tendrils of a nightmare gripped her still, though she had forgotten most of the dream upon waking, an hour ago, or more. She knew she had dreamt of her captivity—something that she couldn't recall in waking had worked its way into her subconscious mind. A few small, stubborn vestiges clung to her consciousness like cobwebs, and although the dream had terrified her in some base, guttural way, she went over what she could remember repeatedly, hoping to glean some useful information, worrying at it like a hangnail or a blister.

_They repeated Peter's name, and her own, over and over again, punctuating the litany with pain as she'd never imagined, novel each time. The pain crowded out any possibility of thinking, its vastness altering the landscape of her mind, reshaping her thoughts with brushstrokes of agony and despair. _

_When finally they left her, having taken everything—even the light—with them, she lay trembling, crumpled, alone in the dreadful black. The darkness itself was perhaps worst of all—cool, endless, stifling nothing that leeched at her, drowned her screams, stopped her throat. She was a solitary island, and the darkness lapped at the shores of her sanity, eroding what little was left to her. _

_Minutes or hours later, a very faint scratching noise split the darkness. Like nails on a window pane, accompanied by the whisper of her name. "Olivia." She wasn't alone._

At that, she'd woken in a cold sweat, throwing her arm out violently as she sat up with a huge gasp. Beside her, Peter had sat up rapidly, instantly awake, reaching under the pillow for the gun as he grabbed her arm with his other hand. "'Livia! Olivia, what is it?" She'd jumped, startled, as he moved beside her, having forgotten that he'd stayed, and then dropped her chin as she'd remembered her break-down in the bathroom. The memory had brought with it a mortifying swell of embarrassment that was tempered by an almost pitiful gratitude for his presence, one that she never would have acknowledged aloud. _ Peter, I'm so glad that you're here._ Blood had rushed to her face at the thought, and she had been grateful that he couldn't see it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd ever felt so ashamed (even then it hadn't been enough to make her wish he hadn't been there). Surely he must have thought she'd finally lost it, cracked. _Will he tell Broyles?_ But even as she'd thought it, she'd remembered the way he'd wrapped his arms around her. _I am here for you, 'Livia._

When she'd failed to answer, Peter had jumped out of bed, jarring her leg, and looked around the room again, scanning for signs of danger. He'd even gone out into the common room and back before he'd leaned over and grasped her shoulder more tightly, asking again, "What is it?" Horrifyingly embarrassed, both at her earlier behavior and at waking him now, she'd choked on her shame, and hadn't been able to bring herself to do anything but stare miserably at his expression. The left half of his face had been illuminated by yellow light from the streetlight outside, throwing his concerned frown into stark relief. He'd shook her a little when she hadn't responded, frown deepening, and said again, "'Livia, talk to me!"

"Peter…" She'd breathed, finally finding her voice, watching the way the light fell on his mouth, the corners turned down. His hand had felt warm on her skin as he gripped her too tightly in his anxiety. "It's alright, Peter. I had a nightmare, that's all." He'd exhaled, relieved, releasing her arm, and tucked the gun back under the pillow before lying down again beside her. Smoothing his hands over his face, he'd inhaled deeply once, exhaled, and then tucked his arms behind his head. She'd looked down at him, watching him settle back into the bedding, her own face shadowed by the curtain of her hair, before turning to watch the light come in from the window. At least a minute passed in silence before he raised a hand again to touch her shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She'd turned back to him and shook her head, hair swishing in front of her face, hiding her expression. This was somewhat intentional—she hadn't wanted him to see how unsettled she really was, or how relieved she'd been to find him there. She needed to pull it together if they were ever going to be able to work as a team again. They just couldn't do the kind of work they did if one partner was constantly worried that the other might have a nervous breakdown, especially in the face of what was surely coming. _A Storm is Coming… Besides, I think Walter pretty much has the questionable-sanity slot on the team covered._

She'd frowned at the thought, grimly, feeling unkind and generally inadequate. Peter had sighed at her silence and rubbed her arm before rolling onto his side and snuggling back down into the pillow. _You need to calm down. _She told herself. _It was like this before. You just need to give yourself time. _And then suddenly it had been Charlie's voice in her head. _You're gonna be fine. _Olivia had nodded once to herself and then sighed, rubbing her hands over her face, just as Peter had. Eventually she'd lain back down next to him, grasping for the wooly edge of sleep that so often eluded her.

An hour later, she was still awake, staring at the ceiling. Peter lay beside her in the darkness, snoring lightly, lost to slumber and oblivion. She listened to his even breathing, trying to lose herself to the gentle, rhythmic hush of his breath as it passed his lips, but every time her eyelids got heavy she would hear that faint _scritch_ on the window pane. She glanced at the window, and of course there was nothing there, as there hadn't been a half-a-dozen times before, but the hairs on the back of her neck and arms were still standing on end. She just couldn't get herself to relax. _This happened before, too. Remember how random sounds were magnified briefly after you crossed back? But it passed as well. You just have to be patient. There's probably a mosquito-hawk or a spider on the window outside. Now close your eyes and stop acting like a child. Ella handles nightmares better than this. _Taking her own advice, Olivia closed her eyes firmly and kept them closed, forcing herself to focus solely on the sound of Peter's breath, breathing in sync with him. Her heart rate slowed, her breathing evened out. Eventually she began to drift.

With her eyes closed, she never saw the shadow that passed over the window, briefly blocking out the light that illuminated the bed and framed the two as they curled toward each other, oblivious.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Hey all, or rather 'aloha', from somewhere I may or may not be on vacation. :D I apologize for the infrequency of my updates. I will try to make my next update quick! As always, thank you to piratesmiley for being my beta, and thank you all for reading and reviewing! :)

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An hour later, Olivia was again dragged into wakefulness by the sharp rise of pain as the narcotics wore off. She sighed, blinking fuzzily in the gray pre-dawn haze, and struggled to focus on anything but the constant, stabbing throb that constituted her entire upper leg. But she _was_ lucid and it was the first time since she'd crossed back that she hadn't woken in a panic.

She tried to sit up slightly, and discovered that her head hurt like hell, along with her leg, which was an unexpected bonus. _Fabulous._ But Olivia wasn't the kind of person who held with whining, out-loud or otherwise, and she allowed herself just one brief, sardonic smile before she brushed the thought from her mind. _I've had worse._

She lay back down, gritted her teeth, and tried to tune out the pain, counting by sevens and then primes in an attempt to soothe herself with the familiar progression. She started on the Fibonacci sequence before she had to quit abruptly because it made her think of Walter. Walter inevitably brought her to Walternate, and at that she felt the hairs on the back of her neck and arms rising, drawn up by the vastness of her anger, a cold undercurrent of calculating bloodlust beneath. And there was also something more primitive than that; something familiar that ran deep, calling to her in the way that laughter or lightheartedness resonated with someone who'd had a more fortunate childhood.

_Rage. _

Olivia grimaced, smoothing hair back from her face as she shuddered involuntarily. It was an emotion that she'd honed—learned to control over the years, and she kept it closely in check, but—now that they had threatened her family, her friends, her home—it was all she could do not to let it overtake her completely. She clenched her fists and squinted slightly as a red tinge began to cloud the edges of her vision. Consciously, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, counted backwards, attempted a meditation trick she'd picked up in a yoga class a few years ago. She lay quietly on her back, counting her breaths in an attempt to master her pain or her temper. She squeezed her eyes closed, frowning. _Maybe if I'd stuck with the class it would have worked,_ she thought, wryly.

After several minutes, she accepted defeat and glanced over Peter at the nightstand, where the innocuous orange prescription bottle was perched just out of her reach. She sighed quietly, knowing that if she moved, it would wake him, and this she was loath to do, especially for the second time in one short evening. She glanced down at him, running over the familiar little details in his face—slight crows' feet at the corners of his eyes, lines of care worn between his eyebrows and the edges of his mouth, a dusting of stubble along his jaw. He sighed gently in his sleep, and she found herself smiling in spite of everything—a tiny half-smile that lifted one corner of her lips, but it was a smile nonetheless.

_Peter stayed with me. _ The thought stirred up memories, and a flare of emotion that made her shiver under the comforter. It was just shy of two years since she'd slept in someone's arms, chastely or otherwise. _Not since John, _she acknowledged, tensing, but though the thought ached in her chest, it didn't bring the crippling agony that it would have in the past. As a rule, she just didn't think about John. She'd done her best to forget—had learned to function _around_ her grief, to avoid the things that reminded her of him. It was almost strange to remember. But the wound felt old, and though it would always be a part of her, she realized that she had learned to carry it lightly.

Somewhere along the way her heart had made room for someone else.

She lifted her head, ignoring its achy protest, and looked over at Peter again. He was curled next to her on the bed, long frame folded around hers. Gazing down at the rest of him, she focused on the way his hand rested easily on her hip, and the intimacy of the gesture surprised her, but it shouldn't have. All along she'd been so focused on her feelings _for _Peter, on getting back to him and Walter and the others, that, strange as it was, she hadn't spent much time pondering _his _feelings for _her_. She had figured he would probably still be angry at her for the lie, but in the end he'd agreed to come back with her and that simple thought had been enough.

If she was truly honest with herself, she had probably been _avoiding_ going there in her head. She hadn't known what it meant, that he'd decided to come back. More than likely—and she could hardly blame him—the greatest impetus had been to avoid being used in whatever twisted experiment Walternate had in store. She hadn't known that he would want to stay, or that he would want to be with her. But she'd needed to believe that there was a possibility of a future with Peter, that they could recapture what they'd had—their "family unit" with Walter, the three of them. It was what had sustained her though her captivity.

Now, lying beside him in the graying light, she realized that she needed to know how he felt.

The thought made her feel self-conscious again, as it brought a flare of frustration at her own weakness. _Since when do you need emotional confirmation for anything?_ It was true; she had become accustomed to subsisting on scraps and crumbs of affection, the tiny bits and pieces that managed to squeeze in between the cracks of her working life. _Working life—which, in my case, is redundant. _ She snorted quietly, feeling sardonic and slightly embarrassed at her self-introspection. She inclined her head slightly, recalling their meeting almost two years ago, balking at the magnitude of her own change in trajectory. Remembering was bittersweet. "_Misfit, nomad… sounds like a massive pain in my ass". _She snickered at the irony. _If I had only known. _

Shaking her head, she forced herself to recall the previous evening objectively without coloring it with her own perspective. Focusing again on Peter's hand and the way it rested on her hip, she found that the image was superimposed over the memory of the way he'd looked at her, reached for her, when he'd found her in the bathroom. The bare emotion on his face had scared her then, as the arc of his hand frightened her now, and both summoned an echo of feeling in the depths of her core that raised goosebumps on her arms, though from joy or terror she couldn't tell.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hey all, I'm back from my vacation and writing furiously to catch _Within_ up to _The Waiting Room_ so that we can get on with the action! Thank you all for your wonderful reviews!

This chapter corresponds to CH 10 of _The Waiting Room. _:)

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She woke to the scrutiny of his steady blue gaze, his profile lit by a sideways slant of dying light through the window blinds. Considering the way her night had gone—restless even by Fringe standards—a day of sleep had left her feeling much improved, though, unmedicated, she was experiencing an impressive degree of pain from her leg. But she wasn't about to let that show, not after pulling yet another near-death stunt and scaring the dickens out of everyone. Especially in light of the whole Peter/Over There debacle, she figured everyone had had enough stress to cope with in the past month.

Peter watched as she yawned and stretched. When he told her that everyone else had gone to watch a movie across the hall, he tried not to smile as he said it, but there was a tell-tale lift to his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth that Olivia recognized. _They're giving us time to ourselves. _She felt a little guilty for missing the movie with Rachael and Ella, but the guilt was easily submerged beneath the thrill of anticipation at finding herself alone with Peter.

He fussed over her, in his subtle, Peter-ish way. Put food together, let her pick her favorite movie, brought her a root beer. Made her take some pain medication. He was playing it casual—and he was very, very good at it—but she knew him and underneath she could tell he was worried about her. This both endeared him to her and annoyed her in no small portions.

When the pizza was ready, he brought her a plate and then surprised her by sitting down beside her on the sofa, tucking her legs gently into his lap, one palm resting warmly on her shin. She found herself picking at her pizza as she watched Peter out of the corner of her eye, feeling edgy and foolish and a little nervous, too, which didn't make much sense, considering she and Peter had hardly been out of each others' sight since she'd managed to cross back over. _He's slept in my bed, for Pete's sake._ She smiled slightly at the silly pun, unable to help herself, fluttery with nerves and fuzzy from the pain medication. _I feel… carbonated, _she thought, oddly. Overall, it was a strange mix, and she stayed quiet, content to let her mind drift, tethered to the couch by the casual physical contact of her legs in his lap.

Even underneath her sheepishness and the cloudiness of the medication, she couldn't ignore that her prevailing—overwhelming—emotion had grown from that little thrill to a full-blown undercurrent of momentum, impetus, anticipation. She felt poised on the edge of something important. The last time she'd felt this way was the evening when she'd discovered Peter's glimmer after Jacksonville. And it was there, this night, too—faintly. Every once in a while she'd see the weird shift of light out of the corner of her eye as if to underscore everything that had happened since then.

Knocking the root beer over had been a genuine accident and she'd cursed herself for her klutziness, feeling silly and self-conscious as Peter had to fetch a dishtowel to clean up after her. He knelt in front of her to sop up the mess, and they bumped heads as they looked down at it together. Olivia raised her head and met his gaze, taking a shallow breath as her stomach fluttered with nervous butterflies and Peter stared back at her, brows knit, intense as only Peter could be. He dropped the towel, freeing his left hand to stroke her cheek, and she tried not to shiver visibly at his touch as her heart thumped audibly in her chest. She watched his gaze flicker down to her mouth, and back again. "_'Livia—_" He whispered, and she did shiver then, awash in a wave of goosebumps as her name curled in syllables from his tongue.

The root beer soaked into the couch, abandoned as they recognized that this was what they wanted—that from the moment she'd woken to his patient, affectionate gaze, the trajectory of the evening had been fixed to deposit them here. She wanted to reach up and touch him, but she felt frozen, pinioned in place by nerves as his glimmer shifted in the periphery and raised a sudden, chilly awareness of the terrible evanescence of time—of almost everyone she'd ever cared about in her life. She'd made a space for Peter in her world, and now, with an awful premonition, she could see the entire arc—the inevitable eventuality of that space, horribly empty. _Physics is a bitch. _

Peter, for his part, watched her brief panic and continued to meet her eyes, unflinching.

But she—they—had already made the decision. Her words bound them, hanging in the air, wrapping them in another eventuality. _You belong with me._

Just as before, she hesitated, needing him but unsure how to proceed. "Peter, I—I don't know how to do this," she uttered, a plea. Little shocks of electricity ran up and down her limbs, and shortened her already shallow breath. He leaned in closer, and she held her breath as he whispered, "Don't worry, 'Livia," inclining his head slightly to cover her lips with his own.

They had kissed exactly twice before, but each time there had always been something holding them back. This time was different. Her pulse rate crescendoed as her breathing became ragged, and both were accompanied by a surge in adrenaline so intense—soaking her already drugged brain—that later she would only remember these kisses in snippets and flashes: their lips and tongues moving together; the taste of him; her hand pressed against his chest as she counted his rapid heartbeats; his musky scent enveloping her, waking a primal need that had long lain dormant; the taut arc of his back muscles over her and his growl of pleasure as he carefully but urgently pressed her into the sofa cushions; the delicious and agonizing prickle of his stubble against the tender skin of her throat. She was surprised to find herself pressing into him with equal fervor, drawing him to her fiercely, rough and wanting. When his name dropped from her lips it was unbidden, emotional, raw with a need for him that was visceral, shuddering in her limbs: _closer, tighter, more_. Later she would remember one lucid thought: _ finally._

She hardly noticed when he accidentally pressed his knee into her wound—an accident—and felt vaguely irritated as a gasp of pain escaped her lips. Her irritation increased as he drew away from her, horror-stricken, looking severely chastened. She tried to pull him back to her but he shook his head. "No… no—I don't want to hurt you." Trying not to look as put-out as she felt, she exhaled forcefully. Who knew when they would get time alone like this again? As she shuddered with unspent need and a sudden flare of anger, she tried to focus on the sweetness of his reaction, and not the misplaced self-flagellation. He shuffled around, cleaned up the root beer as best he could—though by now most of it had worked its way into the couch stuffing for the long haul—and stood with his back to her, forcing himself to appear completely uninterested as she changed her sopping t-shirt.

Eventually he flopped down on the couch next to her, still wallowing in his stupid, unnecessary pout. She was still tempted to be angry as she looked over at him, sorely disappointed. After a moment, she made herself smile—a mixture of affection and annoyance. "Come on, Peter, I'm okay." _The evening need not be a complete waste._ His grudging capitulation was to put an arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled into it, ignoring his continuing gloom. _I'll take what I can get. _

When he kissed her hair, she sighed.


	8. Chapter 8

An hour and a half later, leaning into the sofa cushions, Olivia delicately peeled a piece of pepperoni off of her pizza, tossed it into her mouth, and smiled in spite of herself—she was in an uncommonly good mood. Inclining her head slightly, she wondered for a second if it was the narcotics… and then decided to just enjoy it. Today had been—especially in comparison to its recent counterparts—an exceptional day. Somehow she'd managed to sleep for several hours, and she felt more alert than she ever had since she'd returned. For the first time in days she was clean, full, and pain free, surrounded by the people she loved.

Not to mention she'd very recently spent at least five minutes kissing the lips off of one Peter Bishop.

Her heart skipped a little at the thought, and she ducked her chin slightly, smiling what she knew to be a silly, girlish grin. She straightened up and looked over at him ruefully, wishing that he'd been willing to continue their makeout session instead of succumbing to the arcane vestiges of chivalry she'd been surprised to discover he harbored. A flash of frustration lit her that was swiftly dispersed by a glance at Peter's sleeping face as he reclined on the couch. She recognized it as a cliché, but in sleep, Peter Bishop truly did look younger… and even a little innocent. She smiled again and shifted on the sofa, brushing her loose, wet hair over her shoulder.

But touching her hair made her think of Rachael, and she dropped her chin again as a mixture of self-consciousness and chagrin blossomed in her chest, dampening her bubbly mood. Earlier, Rachael had patiently helped her wash her hair, and it had been a strange and somewhat awkward experience for the two sisters, who hardly ever even hugged. Olivia just wasn't, generally, good at initiating any kind of physical affection. And with Rachael, she'd always been the big sister—the caretaker, the one who had her shit together. Being in this situation—being physically dependent on others for help—well, to say that it was getting under her skin was something of an understatement. She smoothed her hair back from her face and shrugged her shoulders, resisting, for once, the inevitable takeover of her dark, brooding nature. _I need a drink, _she thought, not for the first time, eying the fridge with longing.

She sighed and leaned back into the couch, submersing herself in the glib, wise-cracking world of William Powell and Myrna Loy's _Thin Man._ After a few minutes, she couldn't help but chuckle. Beside her, Peter stirred and opened his eyes, and she looked over at him, unable to resist giving him a hard time. "Hey, look who's awake!" She goaded, grinning. He laughed, which made her grin harder. "Good, now maybe I can turn the volume down some—it was getting difficult to hear over all that snoring." Peter raised his eyebrows, and she realized she was flirting—straight up, blatantly flirting—with him. And she _liked_ it, which really wasn't like her at all—she was acting like someone… normal. _What has gotten into me? _She pressed her lips together, torn between enjoying herself and feeling guilty that she wasn't working.

Later on, when things had calmed down again enough for her to process, she would look back on that point—and what had happened earlier—and feel ashamed and acutely guilty.

She would blame herself, of course, for what happened next.

A knock came at the door and Olivia sat bolt upright, her good mood slipping off of her like water from a duck's feathers as a chill of premonition ran down her spine.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Hey all, so I think this chapter finally catches us up to _The Waiting Room_. Thank you all for your reviews and messages! This wouldn't be nearly as much fun if I didn't have such wonderful support. :)

As always, thanks to Piratesmiley, who reads everything before I post it to make sure it's up to snuff!

This chapter coincides with CH 12 of _The Waiting Room_.

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When they heard the gunshot, Olivia found that she had been expecting it. As she struggled up off the sofa, her own gun in hand, she felt herself almost nodding in assent, as if to say, _Oh, that's right—other people can have a nice, romantic movie night at home, but not us—not me. _Peter turned before he threw open the door and paused to look at her, hesitating as he tried to decide between tearing down the hallway and staying to protect her and Walter. "Peter, GO!" She screamed, waving her hands, and he went. As soon as he was gone she wished she hadn't sent him off so quickly—he assuredly would have gone anyway, but what if something happened to him without backup? She gritted her teeth, acutely frustrated at her inability to follow, and tried to put it out of her mind: refusing to entertain the idea that Peter would be anything but perfectly fine. The best thing she could do now was hold it together and make sure Astrid, Walter, Rachael, and Ella were okay. She turned to Walter, who was panicking, staring after Peter with eyes wide with fear. "Walter, get my cell phone off the nightstand." Her tone left no room for argument, and he meekly fetched the cell phone from her room, still looking painfully worried.

Olivia attempted to punch in Broyles' number and found, to her surprise, that her hands were shaking. Steadying them as she exhaled slowly through her mouth, she forced herself to focus, and tried again. The line connected after the approximate equivalent of the Cretaceous period, and Broyles' voice rumbled through. "Dunham, Broyles here."

"Sir, there's been a sighting of my alternate _here in the hotel_, and a minute ago there was a gunshot down the hall. Peter Bishop is in pursuit on foot, by himself." Stumbling through the words in a rush, she realized that if she could hear the anxiety and self-loathing in her own voice, then Broyles certainly could, but she pushed on and tried to keep her tone steady. "We need backup immediately."

"Alright—I'll send a team right now. And Dunham?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You _be _careful out there. Don't do anything risky." As usual he didn't wait for a response—the line clicked and she stuffed the phone into her pocket, leaning on the back of the sofa as she hobbled around to the other side. "Walter, Agent Broyles is sending backup—Peter's going to be just fine. Now, I need you to help me get my crutches; they're over there against the wall." He nodded and brought them to her quickly, face grave. She struggled with the crutches and the pistol for a split second before she dropped one prop to keep her gun hand free, leaning on the remaining crutch. "Okay, Walter, stay behind me."

She took a swift, careful look into the hallway to check for any more enemy agents, and then they hurried outside and down the hall to Astrid's open door. Dread swelled in the pit of Olivia's stomach as she took in the ominous gap between the door and doorjamb, but she quashed it, a steely expression on her face as she pushed the door open and entered the room, leading with her gun. Crumpled against the foot of her twin bed, Astrid leaned, holding the back of her skull as blood trickled darkly down her wrist. She opened her eyes when they came in, struggling to focus. At the sight of her, Walter let out a horrified cry and rushed to her side, helping her sit up a little. In his haste, the normally hyper-perceptive senior Bishop failed to notice a spent syringe lying on the floor next to the junior agent, but Olivia did. A chill ran down her spine. Walter gently began to examine Astrid's head, looking into her pupils with a penlight. "Astrid—" Olivia began, her stomach dropping sickeningly, "did she dose you with something?" Astrid nodded a little and then winced under Walter's hands, closing her eyes.

"Yes—it was her… you… the other one. She hit me and then gave me an injection of something… I pulled out my gun and took a shot at her… she ran. I missed… but she dropped the syringe." Walter had tilted her head forward so that he could look at the contusion on the back of her skull, and at her statement he let go and backed up slightly to locate the syringe on the carpet. Producing a handkerchief, he picked it up and examined it carefully, face grim, as Olivia pulled her phone out of her pocket again and called for a medic—she figured the FBI would be faster, especially because Broyles had already sent a team to the area—and then an ambulance for good measure. Meanwhile, Walter had located the syringe cap, capped the syringe, put it in his breast pocket, and resumed his examination of Astrid, now scrutinizing the injection site in her shoulder. Without looking up, he said authoritatively,

"Agent Dunham, I'll need access to a lab—I must determine exactly what it was she dosed Agent Farnsworth with, and the more quickly the better." Olivia nodded, already dialing Nina Sharp, as Walter turned back to Astrid. "Agent Farnsworth, you must notify me or Olivia immediately if you feel any change in symptoms. It's possible that you've been dosed with a neurotoxin or some other kind of poison. The more we know, the quicker we can identify whatever is in your bloodstream." Astrid inclined her head slightly in assent, looking nauseous. Initial diagnostics complete, Walter snatched a pillow off of the bed, shucked the pillowcase, and pressed it to the back of Astrid's head to stem the bleeding.

"Thank you, Walter." Astrid mumbled, lips barely moving. Walter nodded once, sharply.

"You're going to be just fine, Agent Farnsworth."

Olivia was impressed by how well he was keeping it together, especially with Peter in pursuit of Astrid's assailant. Having a task seemed to have focused him, but there was something more to it than that—he had a look on his face that Olivia recognized. It was the fierce, bright expression of a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his ends—something that went beyond 'determination' and stopped just short of 'religious fervor' (she suppressed a shiver, thinking of Walternate). What surprised Olivia was that this emotion was directed not at Peter, but at Astrid. She had known that in Peter's absence, Walter had teetered very close to the edge of madness, and had relied heavily on Astrid—and herself—to function. Apparently, in her preoccupation with the search for Peter, she hadn't realized just exactly how important that support had been to Walter.

But this was a man who knew well the creeping, clinging chill of loss—the terrible echo of solitude. Olivia had spent three days in captivity; this man had spent seventeen years. Walter wasn't an overly warm man by any means, but in his long, sad lifetime, he had learned the fearful importance of love. Olivia inclined her head. _That's what makes the difference._

Nina Sharp finally picked up, and Olivia had hardly explained the situation before Nina was saying, "Of course—I'll send a car to get you."

The next half hour whizzed by in an adrenaline-induced haze as the FBI medics arrived, followed shortly by the city paramedics. The arrival of the FBI team meant that Olivia had a chance to go check on Rachael and Ella, who were terrified but safe. Olivia was relieved, but she had known somehow that her alternate wouldn't hurt them—there had been something in the alternate's expression when Olivia had said she had a sister, and a niece, that the other woman hadn't meant to betray. The briefest flash of grief, and eagerness, and longing. Olivia had recognized it as the same emotion in her own tone when she'd said, "Mom's alive?" In any case, Rachael and Ella, at least, didn't seem to have anything to fear from the Alternate.

Olivia returned to Astrid's room to find that the paramedics had Astrid trussed and loaded up onto a gurney. Astrid turned to Walter and grabbed his sweater—a tiny betrayal of her anxiety. "Walter—my arm is going numb." Her hand shook a little where she clutched the knit fabric of the cardigan. She coughed, once, and inhaled slowly, laboriously, but her gaze was steady as she looked up at him. "Walter, what is happening to me?" He dropped his chin slightly, returning her gaze. Olivia saw a slight tremble at his mouth.

"I don't know, my dear, but I'm going to find out." The paramedics rushed Astrid out the door, following the vanguard of an FBI security detail, and Walter stood in the doorway, watching them go. As they disappeared down the hall, he reached up, hand shaking slightly, and gripped the doorjamb, as if for support. Then he took a breath and turned toward Olivia, gesturing impatiently. "Come on, Agent Dunham. I don't think we've got much time."


End file.
